What he would not give to be twenty-nine again, flogging his battery through the dust, smoke, fire, and glory of that day. But all is lost now: youth, health, fame, and the flying artillery itself. There are a few reconstituted batteries—none in this army nor Rosecrans’s either—but they are little more than showpieces floating on the immense vulgarity of this war. Bragg opens his eyes, unsure if he has slept. It is the last day of 1862, and even now his troops are moving into position for the assault at dawn. He feels no fear of failure, only a despondency that he cannot win. Not finally. Not ever.
Rosecrans smokes a cigar in the dark cabin, listening to Garesché’s deep, steady breathing. He has tried to sleep, but each time he has begun to fall into unconsciousness there have come images of fire—the retort of coal oil exploding, setting him alight: his shirt, his hands, his face, his hair. And as he breathes in the fire, he jerks out of the dream before it can take him utterly.
He thinks back, watches himself turn up the flame under the retort and then grab a pencil to record in his notebook the latest results of his experiment. He was hurrying, skipping steps, taking chances, his mind rushing ahead through the complexities of the problem, forgetting to watch the temperature. Then the moment he turned again to the burner and the retort, saw the oil boiling and knew an instant too late that he had blundered. Then the flash and the fire. All because of haste.
He blows smoke toward the low ceiling, shifts his weight on the narrow bed. He knows that haste is his flaw, that he must guard against it above all else. That is why he refused to march this army from Nashville before all was ready, refused when Halleck and Stanton threatened to relieve him, refused even when that pathetic oaf Lincoln entreated him to move for the sake of the Republic. He has advanced on his own schedule and it has worked. Even the damage to the trains will prove without consequence in a day or two. He reviews his plan for the morning, picturing it step by step, though he is already sure of its every detail. As long as McCook holds, we will be all right, he thinks. A pity that we do not have better cavalry. Unless Bragg is incredibly maladroit, we can only drub him, not destroy him. In the end, he will be able to rescue his army and retreat. But I will never let him come north again.
Lieutenant General Leonidas Polk, Bishop of Louisiana and former Missionary Bishop to the Southwest, lies on his back, hands folded over ample belly, snoring softly. He dreams of Shiloh and the moment when it was first granted to him to see the souls of the dead. He had always imagined fluttering, gossamer things, rising on the breath of God. But they were not so at all, but pathetic dark moths, flapping among the corpses, vainly seeking readmission to their corporeal homes. In that moment he knew that the Resurrection was a falsehood, that the soul of the would-be Christ tumbled from his body into the rubble at the foot of the Cross, ignored by Roman soldiers and praying disciples alike.
Yet with this realization came a new certainty: that the souls of those who expect nothing from God have power and grace, live on as predators in an eternity as savage as carnal existence. Certainly it is so. Polk has proof; for with each minute at Shiloh, he felt his soul changing, transforming, becoming huge and terrible and magnificent.
That evening Polk wandered behind the lines until he found a lonely cabin with a wisp of smoke from the chimney. He pushed through the door without knocking. A woman turned from the fireplace and her stew pot. Polk did not say a word but dropped a silver dollar on the table and unbuckled his sword. The woman understood, swung the pot so that it would hang simmering at the back of the fire, and went to the pallet in the corner, where she lay back, pulling up her faded dress. And though she was a crone, teeth gone, shrunken teats hanging, Polk entered her with a passion he had never felt before, rode her until she wailed, and when he had climaxed and climaxed again, he left her. He would have killed her with his cock if he could have, nearly did with hands about her throat, but left her alive in the last act of mercy in his life.
That night and every night since, Polk dreams he is a great, gray wolf prowling among the piles of corpses on the field at Shiloh, feeding on the souls of the dead.
In the darkness beyond the Yankee right, Hardee has McCown’s and Cleburne’s divisions sidestepping to strike the far end of McCook’s line. Hardee sits his horse by the Franklin Pike, watching the troops trudge by in the dark. It is amazing to him that even on a rainy night there always seems enough light for men to march. “Move along, boys,” he murmurs. “Keep ranks.”
“Why don’t you shut up?” a voice hisses back. “General Cleburne said no talkin’, an’ you ain’t him.”
Hardee smiles, says nothing.
“My apologies for that, General.” Cleburne at his side, out of the darkness.
Even in the gloom, Hardee can read the ungainly proportions of Cleburne’s latest plowhorse. But though the beast has been selected for its placidity and lack of imagination, it shifts uneasily under Cleburne. It must be the man’s intensity, Hardee thinks. My God, the boy shimmers like a panther tonight. He is my creation, my killer, yet he frightens me. Hardee reaches out, squeezes Cleburne’s shoulder, feels the muscles flinch. “No apology necessary, Patrick. You gave them the proper instructions. I was the one who erred in speaking.”
“Still, you are horseback and an officer. The man—”
“This is not the British army. Here men are more inclined to speak their minds. Free men fighting for the independence of their country. From such men, I can stand the occasional backtalk.”
Cleburne is silent a moment. Sighs. “Yes, of course. And for such men, we need do our best. It is not my place to say it, General, but I am concerned… .” He hesitates.
“Go ahead, Pat.”
“I am concerned about the control General McCown has of his division. He does not seem to me sufficiently … decisive.”
“I know. I am concerned, and so is the commanding general. But I have given General McCown thorough instructions. He is to strike the enemy flank at the oblique and then begin the wheel, his brigades moving in echelon. He cannot misunderstand.”
Cleburne is silent, the horse shifting under him. Finally, he says, “Yes, General. I should go now and see that my artillery is moving expeditiously.”
“Certainly, Pat. I will see you in the morning.” And a bloody one it will be, Hardee thinks. God protect you, boy.
Cleburne focuses on minutiae, prodding his division into better order despite the darkness. The division color guard passes, flags furled, and he permits himself a momentary picture of the division on attack. His is the only division in the army granted the right to carry its own unique flag. It is a privilege bought with blood. But, God, it is a glorious banner. Cleburne can picture it unfurling amid the cedars in the dawn, a breeze catching its folds to outspread a silver moon on a night-blue background. And because Cleburne is at heart a romantic—something that not even Hardee understands— he whispers the ancient battle cry of the Irish: “Faugh a ballagh!” Clear the way!
Brigadier General Joshua Sill prowls his line, listening to the darkness. It is there, he is sure: a low, steady shuffle, men moving, many men. He goes forward to investigate. At 2:00 A.M., he sends word to Sheridan, who shortly joins him on the picket line. At first skeptical, Sheridan is soon alarmed, and together they ride to see McCook at right wing headquarters near the Gresham house.
The roadmaster wagons haven’t arrived, and McCook is asleep on a bale of straw under a rain fly in the angle of a worm fence. He listens bleary-eyed to Sheridan and Sill. Their mouths move in the lantern light, but he cannot at first fathom what they are saying. The Rebs are on the defensive; he is sure of it. Any sound of movement must come from Bragg rearranging his line, nothing more.
He yawns, tries to concentrate. Why is it that Sheridan and Sill, usually so calm, seem so exercised? It is he who feels on the edge of panic most of the time these days, he who worries that he may reveal his fear to the likes of these two. He raises a hand to quiet them. “Everything has been anticipated. Crittenden will advance aga
inst the Rebel right in the morning. Our duty is to hold while he opens the battle. By late morning, we may be called on to participate in an envelopment. Until then, I suggest that we stand easy.” For another fifteen minutes, Sheridan and Sill try to impress on McCook the danger in their front. But McCook is spookily calm in his refusal to find anything amiss in the right wing’s preparedness.
Sheridan sends Sill back to his line while he stops to alert Colonel Frederick Schaefer, commander of his reserve brigade. Schaefer jackknifes to his feet, listens intently to Sheridan. A former sergeant in the army of one of the minor German states, Schaefer is another of this army’s many veterans of the 1848 uprisings. “Send Sill two regiments as soon as you have your men mustered,” Sheridan says.
Schaefer almost clicks his heels, catches himself. “Yes, General.”
Sheridan mounts, rides on, knowing that Schaefer will be thoroughly prepared and as calm as stone when the battle begins. He feels equally fortunate in his third brigade commander, Colonel George W. Roberts, a strikingly handsome Illinois lawyer and pre-war militia officer. Roberts bounds from his bed of cedar boughs, all confidence and high spirits. Together they visit each of the regimental commanders. In minutes, the soldiers are rolling out of their blankets to muster under arms, breath steaming in the frosty drizzle turning now and then to snow. Sheridan rides on to Sill’s brigade, where with his friend he again walks the line, speaking to each regimental colonel. Whatever happens with the rest of McCook’s wing, Sheridan’s division will be ready for the dawn.
Sill and his pickets are not alone in hearing the sound of troops moving in the dark. Pickets in front of Davis’s and Johnson’s divisions likewise send back reports. But the forest is tricky, letting sound carry in some places while blotting it out in others. Staff officers riding forward to confirm reports hear nothing, berate pickets for panicking.
On the extreme right of McCook’s corps, where Willich’s brigade straddles the Franklin Pike, Colonel William Gibson of the 49th Ohio sends a combat patrol forward into the gloom. It returns an hour later having found nothing.
At nearly the same time, Chief Surgeon Solon Marks of Johnson’s division steps from a hospital tent near Overall Creek, a full mile to the rear of Willich’s line, to listen to the rumble of moving artillery. He returns to his bed atop an operating table to rest in the little time before the cataclysm. He doesn’t think to report what he has heard. Surely the right wing must already be under arms, waiting for the Rebel attack.
At 4:00 A.M., the sodden wind that has blown all night drops away and the rain eases to a mist. The cedars beyond McCook’s line are quiet, the pickets no longer firing the occasional nervous shot. Sheridan wonders if he, Sill, and the pickets have all been mistaken. Perhaps there is no great Rebel force out in front. But he feels the iron weight in his gut, the cannonball of certainty that always tells him when something is about to happen. No, they are there. He can feel the bastards waiting for the light.
Brigadier General David Stanley arrives at the wagon park near Stewart’s Creek an hour before daylight, where he is greeted warmly by red-faced Colonel Joe Burke of the 10th Ohio. Patrols have been out on the roads all night and report no sign of Wheeler’s cavalry. Would the general like a bit of good Irish whiskey to chase the chill? The general would.
They join the regimental chaplain, who is supervising the preparation of a milk punch. Stanley gulps straight whiskey from Burke’s flask and then tries the punch. The colonel orders breakfast and the three settle down, in the chaplain’s recollection, “to a delightful hot punch and a delicate breakfast.”
McCook has not slept since Sheridan and Sill left. He rises now, calls for his chief of staff. “Send word to Generals Sheridan, Davis, and Johnson that they might be advised to have their men under arms at daybreak.”
The chief of staff stirs from his usual reticence. “Should I make that a peremptory order, General?”
McCook hesitates. “No. Just advisory. They know better the situation in front of their lines.”
In the predawn stillness, Braxton Bragg leaves the comfort of the house in Murfreesboro for his field headquarters behind the Confederate left center, west of Stones River. Joe Wheeler rides with him, delivering his report on the damage to the Federal trains.
“Well done, General,” Bragg says. “When will your brigade be ready for further duty?”
Wheeler hesitates. “They’re pretty well used up, General. Not so much the men as the mounts. If I’d known we were going to fight so soon… .” His voice trails off.
The boy is exhausted, Bragg thinks, has probably not slept more than a few hours in all the time since the Yankees marched from Nashville. He feels a sudden welling of sympathy. He would like to touch the boy, let his hand rest on Wheeler’s arm for a moment. But he cannot reach across the distance. He will call him Joe, let drop for a moment the formality of military etiquette. No, not Joe. That is entirely too familiar. He will call him Joseph in a fatherly tone.
But he cannot. Instead he hears his voice using the cool tone of senior to subordinate. “Don’t concern yourself overmuch, General. Your men did good work yesterday.”
Julius Garesché wakes to a touch on his shoulder, opens his eyes to see Rosecrans’s large smiling face. “Time to get ready, Julius. ‘Dawn speeds a man on his journey, and speeds him too in his work.’”
Garesché swings his feet off his cot. He feels remarkably fresh, as if he had slept round the clock rather than a few hours. Magee brings him a cup of coffee, and he sits for a few moments savoring it. “I confess I don’t recognize the quote, General.”
“It’s Hesiod. Works and Days.”
“Your erudition never fails to amaze me.”
“Thank you, Julius.” Rosecrans swings a sky-blue cloak over his shoulders. Garesché stands hurriedly but Rosecrans holds up a palm. “It’s all right. I’m just going outside to look at the weather and smoke a cigar.”
“General, the Rebel guns on the hill—”
“Pah. Let them shoot. I’ll watch the fall of shot and dodge as needs be.” He steps outside.
A moment later, Goddard comes in with messages. “Nothing very significant, Colonel. General Stanley reports everything quiet out on the Wilkinson Pike. The same seems to be true all along our line. No reports to the contrary, at least.”
“Very good, Major. Coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir. I’ve had mine.”
Goddard begins busily arranging the messages on the table. Garesché reads leisurely through the first pile. Why am I so languorous this morning? he wonders. As if nothing could possibly bother me. This is the dawn of my first battle, and I think I could easily go back to sleep. How strange.
He hears Father Treacy’s tenor brogue outside the cabin and Rosecrans’s deeper reply. After a moment, the two go to the far side of the cabin. Garesché steps to a narrow, dusty window. Rosecrans is on his knees, making confession amid the ferns where the head of the decapitated orderly had lain the afternoon before. The memory squeezes Garesché’s heart, wrings the languor from his thoughts. He returns to the table, flips rapidly through the remaining messages, and reaches for his coat. He, too, must confess, prepare for the day and all its eventualities.
Everyone save Rosecrans, who seems truly oblivious to the danger of the place, is relieved to abandon the cabin. Goddard returns to the tents in the woods to direct the remainder of the staff while Garesché, Treacy, and the usual train of aides and escorts ride with Rosecrans to mass. Van Cleve’s division of Crittenden’s left wing is camped along McFadden’s Lane, its closest brigade a half mile from the ford across Stones River. The men are making coffee and roasting salt pork over small fires in the early light. Like Napoleon, Rosecrans believes in sending men into battle with something on their stomachs besides fear.
The staff stops to hear mass at the camp of the Thirty-fifth Indiana. Father Peter Coone, a smiling, elfin man, greets them in his fluting voice. Treacy steps inside to assist Coone with the sacrament while
Rosecrans and Garesché remove their hats and kneel under an awning forming a presbytery before the open door of the tent. Three of the enlisted orderlies join the hundred or so soldiers who move forward to kneel in a rough semicircle about the tent. The rest of the staff stands off at a distance. Some of the men are noticeably uncomfortable, for most of them are Protestant Midwesterners and this is Papism, the stuff of mystery, conspiracy, and corruption.
Coone moves rapidly through the liturgy of the mass. Rosecrans and Garesché receive the sacrament, and then Coone, Treacy, and two younger priests move quickly through the semicircle of enlisted men. When Coone stands again before the congregation, he smiles, raises his arms: “Go, my sons, in the armor of righteousness to restore peace and Union to this land.”
Rosecrans shakes hands with Coone, pausing to talk for a few minutes. Garesché spots Hazen astride his bay gelding beyond the edge of the dispersing crowd. He excuses himself and makes his way through to him. Hazen swings down, handing reins to the ubiquitous topographical engineer, Bierce, who avoids meeting Garesché’s eyes.
Garesché reads his friend’s face and smiles: Bill Hazen is angry again. When was it ever otherwise? “And how is it with you this morning, Bill?”
Bright Starry Banner Page 17
